


Gratitude

by justkisa



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 23:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4282773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A grateful blowjob + a lot of kisses from a very grateful team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Inspired by [this](http://historiograph.tumblr.com/post/122552366728/fuck-everything-lets-not-do-that-again) great tumblr post.
> 
> 2) Set after Argentina's quarter final game vs Colombia at the Copa America 2015.

“Chiquito!” Lucas is smiling - beaming - at Sergio. His face is slick with sweat and his hair is in wild disarray, sticking up in all directions. His smile is like a beacon, though, a wide, gleaming slash across his face. “Chiquito!” He crashes into Sergio palms first. He fists his hands in Sergio’s shirt and shakes him. “Chiquito, Chiquito, you were so great. The best. Did I say that? The best, Chiquito, you were—“

And Sergio wraps his arms around Lucas, lifts him right up off the ground, and laughs. Laughs because they did it, they won, and he doesn’t know how to contain his joy, doesn’t _want_ to, and so it spills out of him in peals of laughter. Lucas presses his face into Sergio’s neck and laughs with him, his open mouth pressed against Sergio’s skin. Sergio puts him down, clasps Lucas’ face between his hands, and says, “No. No, _we_ were great.”

Lucas’ smile crumples into a unhappy, crooked moue. And Sergio wants to put his thumbs into the corners of his mouth and pull it back into a smile. “No,” Lucas says, “I—I—“ He looks down.

Sergio forces his head back up. “It’s fine,” he says, “Lucas. Lucas, we _won_.”

Lucas smiles a little. “We did,” he says. He pats Sergio’s chest. “Because you saved us.”

Sergio drops his hands to Lucas’ shoulders. “Not just me.”

“Maybe,” Lucas says. He slips his hands down Sergio’s chest and his fingers flutter against his stomach. “But without you, without that save, it doesn’t matter. Carlitos doesn’t get to—“ He slides his hands along Sergio’s stomach and curls them along his hips. “You saved us,” he says. He tips up, pressing his body against Sergio’s, and brushes a kiss across the corner of Sergio’s mouth. His lips are warm and a little rough. And he’s so close Sergio can smell him, sweat and grass and dirt. “No one else,” he says, stringing the words along Sergio’s cheek with slow, glancing presses of his mouth, “ _You_ did that.”

Sergio wraps his arms around him and holds him tight because he doesn’t know what else to do. Lucas curls his arms around Sergio’s torso and digs his fingers hard into Sergio’s back. He presses his face against Sergio’s shoulder. Then, when he lifts his head, he says again, his voice gone soft, “You did that,” and smiles, slow, like a secret. “And I—“ He’s stroking his fingers along Sergio’s back in fluttering trails, dragging them along the line of his spine, along the waistband of his shorts. “I want to— Would you let me—“

And Sergio doesn’t know what he means. There’s nothing Lucas needs to give him. Nothing he needs to do or say. His words are nice but Sergio doesn’t even need them. Sergio will give all he has again and again for his teammates, for his country, for _Argentina_ , for as long as they want him. He will give everything on the pitch and never ask for anything in return. The honor of the opportunity to try and bring glory to his country is reward enough for him. “Lucas,” he says, smoothing his hands along the blue and white stripes of Lucas’ jersey, the colors that mean home, that mean _Argentina_ as much as the flag does, “You don’t—“

But Lucas tips his chin up and cuts him off, “I want to.” And his mouth is set a stubborn line. Lucas can get that way, can set himself in a place and never waver, not for anything or anyone. He fists his hands in Sergio’s shirt. “Won’t you let me?” And then he’s on his knees - _on his knees_ \- in front of Sergio, head bowed as if in supplication, as if that’s something Sergio deserves.

Sergio’s first instinct is to haul him back up, like he had on the pitch. To hook his hands under his arms, haul him up, and shake him. Lucas presses his face against Sergio’s stomach. His mouth is open and Sergio can feel his breath, warm and humid, through his shirt. And, instead of hauling him up, Sergio settles his hands on his shoulders. “Lucas,” he says. Lucas’ shoulders hitch and Sergio can feel the stuttering of his breath against his stomach.

“Let me, Chiquito,” Lucas says. He doesn’t lift his head. “Please.”

Sergio should pull him up, hold him close, and tell him there’s no need for penitence, no debt he owes. But Lucas lowers his head and nuzzles at Sergio’s crotch, rubs his cheek across his dick. He presses his open mouth to Sergio’s dick and mouths at it, dampening the fabric.

Sergio leaves him on his knees. Want curls along his spine and heat pools low in his belly. And he’s starting to wonder just how Lucas would pay his debts, to wonder just how his mouth would feel on Sergio’s bare skin, to wonder what else he’d offer up. He shouldn’t let him, shouldn’t let him kneel in penitence for something that requires no forgiveness. “Lucas,” he says and his voice shakes. He lifts his hand from Lucas’ shoulder and settles it on top of his head. He runs his fingers through his hair. It’s damp and tacky with sweat. And, maybe, when Sergio touches him, maybe Sergio’s hand shakes.

Lucas tucks his fingers into Sergio’s waistband and Sergio doesn’t tell him to stop. Lucas pulls down his shorts and pushes up his shirt, but, when he touches him, he doesn’t start where Sergio expects. He brushes a kiss just under his navel, soft and almost reverential. Sergio runs his fingertips along the curve of his neck, tries to show him through touch that, whatever Lucas offers him, he doesn’t value it cheaply.

Lucas goes slowly, kissing and licking his way along Sergio’s skin. His mouth is hot and wet and the slow drag of it along Sergio’s skin sends heat spiraling through him until he’s sweating from it. He wonders, as Lucas uses his mouth to offer up something akin to worship, at the taste of his own skin. Wonders if it tastes of sweat, salt and bitter, across Lucas’ tongue.

He runs his fingers along the flushed skin of Lucas’ neck, his cheeks. Lucas’ skin is plush and warm and Sergio wants to put his mouth on the bended curve of his neck, to lick right at the line of his hair, to press his face into Lucas’ hair.

He cards his fingers through Lucas’ hair and, when Lucas finally - _finally_ \- puts his mouth on his dick, he tightens his hand into a fist and pulls, the damp strands of Lucas’ hair tangling around his fingers. Lucas makes a low, stuttering sound and it hums along Sergio’s dick. Sergio shudders and pulls harder. Lucas slides his mouth down until his face is pressed against Sergio’s stomach. He stays there for a moment that stretches and stretches until Sergio feels like he’s going to snap, to try and push his dick even deeper into Lucas’ mouth.

Sergio makes a sound, a sound that starts low in his throat, a sound he can feel before he hears it, a grating, growl of a sound that scrapes its way up his throat. And Lucas pulls back. He moves so slowly and Sergio is entranced by the sight of his wet, reddened mouth sliding along his dick.

He should, maybe, let him go. He’s holding on to Lucas so tightly his fingers hurt. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Having taken what Lucas offered, he can’t let it go. He’s greedy, now, for whatever reward Lucas wants to give him, for whatever it is Lucas thinks he deserves.

Lucas puts his mouth back on him. He’s gone back to the slow, worshipful pace of before. Lavishing attention on Sergio’s dick, his balls, the line of his hipbones, the creases of his thighs.

“Chiquito,” someone says. And it isn’t Lucas. Lucas is sucking on the head of his dick, running his tongue along the flared edge of the head.

Sergio blinks. He’d forgotten there was a world beyond the wet heat of Lucas’ mouth. “Chiquito.” It’s Marcos. He’s standing just behind Lucas.

The clamor of the crowded dressing room rushes back over Sergio. He’d forgotten it. Gotten lost in Lucas pressed so close to him, in Lucas on his knees, head bowed, until that was all there was. Sergio licks his lips and says Marcos’ name. “M-marcos.” It comes out stuttering and slow.

Lucas is pushing his mouth down his dick again. If he knows Marcos is there, he doesn’t seem to care. Sergio doesn’t care. Let Marcos stand and watch. Let his whole team stand and watch. Sergio just wants _more_.

Marcos smiles a little and his gaze flickers down. He reaches out, like he’s going to touch Lucas. And Sergio doesn’t want that. Marcos can watch but this is _his_. Lucas gave this to _him_ and he finds himself fiercely possessive of his gift, of _him_. “No,” he says.

Lucas stops, starts to pull away. Sergio holds him in place. He touches Lucas’ cheek. “Not you,” he says, tracing his finger along the curve of Lucas’ mouth, “Please.” He loosens his grip a little and lets Lucas choose. When Lucas moves it’s forward not back.

Marcos holds up his hands. He smiles and says, “He’s being good to you?”

It’s barely a question but Sergio still answers it. “So good.”

Marcos smiles wider. “You deserve it,” he says, “You saved us.”

Sergio doesn’t protest the praise. He can’t. Not now. Not when protesting feels like a defamation of the worshipful pleasure Lucas is lavishing on him. “Marcos,” he says, instead, “Marcos,” and it feels a little like saying _thank you_.

Marcos leans in and kisses him, quick and, hard enough that, when he pulls back, Sergio can still feel the press of his mouth. “Thank you,” he says, when he rocks back, “Chiquito, for saving us.” 

“Are we kissing Chiquito now?” someone, Pipita, shouts.

“That’s not,” Eze says, “What Lucas is doing.”

Pipita’s grumbled, “I _know that_ , Eze, fuck you,” is mostly drowned out by what Pocho says next.

“Fuck no, that’s not what he’s doing,” Pocho calls, “He’s doing what we all should be doing. Shit, if he hadn’t gotten there first, I’d have done it. That’s what that save deserved.”

Sergio laughs. It comes out shuddering and gasping. But it comes from the same place of giddy joy as before. He laughs and laughs. Because this is his team, these are _his_ boys. He’s still laughing when he comes. Laughing and trying to say Lucas’ name.

And, when he comes, he sways on his feet, but Marcos is there to fist his hands in his shirt and hold him up. When he’s steady again, he runs his hand through Lucas’ hair and tips his head back. Lucas smiles. His mouth is wet and red. Sergio touches his fingertips to Lucas’ smile. “Thank you,” he says.

Lucas shakes his head. “Thank _you_.” His voice is gone rough and low. He’s smiling, wide and bright, and he looks almost beatifically happy.

“Lucas,” he says, “Lucas. _No_.”

“Yes,” Lucas says.

Marcos, who still has his hands fisted in Sergio’s shirt, gives him shake and says, “Let us thank you, ah, Chiquito, okay? You _saved_ us. You did that.” And he leans in and kisses him again. “Thank you,” and he steps back and Sergio can see his whole team staring at him. Smiling at him. It’s maybe the best thing he’s ever seen.

“So,” Pipita says, after a minute, “ _Now_ are we kissing Chiquito?”

And then Sergio is inundated with kisses. Every single teammate comes and kisses him. On the cheek, on the mouth, anywhere they can reach. The rest of his backline, even Pablo, kisses him square on the mouth. And through it all, Lucas, still on his knees, leans against his legs, a solid, reassuring presence. When Masche comes over, last of all, after even Leo who didn’t say anything but brushed a light, quick kiss over Sergio’s mouth, he ruffles Lucas’ hair, pats Sergio’s cheek and says, “You are our hero again, ah?” Then he leans up and kisses his cheek.

Then it’s just him and Lucas again. Sergio holds out his hands. Lucas takes them and lets Sergio pull him up. Sergio holds Lucas’ hands and tries to figure out what to say. What to do. “Do you,” he says, “I mean, can I…”

Lucas smiles. “It’s not about that, Chiquito. I wanted to.” He shrugs and squeezes Sergio’s hands. “I just, I wanted to give you something.”

But Sergio wants - _needs_ \- to give Lucas something in return so he leans in and offers him the only thing he thinks he’ll take. A kiss. Lucas smiles against his mouth and, then, he kisses him back. It’s slow and sweet and like none of the other kisses. But it’s Sergio’s favorite.


End file.
